Cavort
by makapedia
Summary: "Can you pretend to be my boyfriend for five minutes?"


I watch too many romcoms. I get too many ideas from watching said romcoms.

Ten points to Gryffindor for guessing which movie I watched last night. I might keep going with this, I'unno. But 4,000 words! Holy moley, Batman!

I made a whole new fanfic dot net account, just because I couldn't remember my old email and I wanted to post this here. But you should follow me on Tumblr instead, because I post more often and I'm way more chatty and alive there!

x

"Can you pretend to be my boyfriend for five minutes?"

In retrospect, she probably should've started with 'hello', but beating around the bush had never been Maka Albarn's style.

For a moment, she was very sure that he thought she was kidding, or that maybe she was drunk, and she couldn't blame him. She'd approached him out of no where, and he didn't know her — the most interaction they'd had was her embarrassing staring at him during his set while he shrunk back against his keyboard, eyes sullen and shoulders slouched. They'd made eye contact twice and she'd wondered if his eyes were really as red as they'd looked from where she stood in the crowd or if it was the low light playing tricks on her.

Up close, she could affirm her suspicions; his eyes were very red, a deep, blood red that added to his already edgy wannabe bad boy looks — disheveled white hair, leather jacket and teeth sharp enough to rip her apart. He was either trying too hard or just didn't realize how he came off.

And maybe that was why she'd chose to approach him, of all people. Maybe she'd needed someone who looked standoffish, who'd send all the right signals ('she's fine, back the fuck off and leave her the hell alone') and finally away chase away the irritants that'd been plaguing her for the better part of the night. Maybe, with his help, she'd finally be able to cut through the crowd of drunk-off-their-ass party goers and groupies, grab Liz, and get the Hell out before midnight, maybe, if she was lucky. It was a damn good thing it was Friday and she didn't have school in the morning, because she didn't feel like dealing with Liz's hungover antics in Calc.

To his credit, he looked entirely uncomfortable. There was a spark of something in curiously red eyes, something not at all sincerely dark and dangerous (she was so right, this guy wasn't as tough as he thought he was) and his brows shoot up his forehead and disappeared beneath white hair.

"… Uh," he grunted, so in-eloquently that she had to bite her tongue to keep herself from criticizing him. His friend — a blue-haired monkey wearing way too much Axe — guffawed and elbowed the taller man in the arm, eyebrows waggling in a way that frustrated even her. He seemed to consider her for a moment and she momentarily wished she was wearing a bra with some sort of help and maybe something a little more convincing than her boots and an over sized pair of skinnies, but it didn't matter. She wasn't aiming to seduce the guy, and she wasn't honestly interested in dating him long term. She just needed him to get Kim off of her back.

"Just five minutes," she assured, and she was moving beside him in a moment, wedging herself between him and the friend. Red eyes took a step back and gawked at her. "Could you just — do me a favor, please?"

"_Why_."

He wasn't a man of many words, was he? A brow twitched and she busied her fingers into the worn leather of his jacket. It smelt vaguely of smoke and a little bit of ink, of all things. It was curious.

Guitars were roaring and drums were crashing in her ears. It was too loud, and the room was too small for so many people to be dancing and crowding; she was shoved into him and he squawked, not at all sounding as cool as she'd originally thought he might've been when she'd all but had 'fucked him with her eyes' (Liz's words, not hers) during his set. She'd penetrated his personal space without much of a fight, but he was clearly not happy. She knew that look in his eyes, the way his eyes were eating her alive.

He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be left alone, please, and she was ruining that. but he could deal. She really needed his help, and she wasn't about to bail out and ask for his friend's help (she was pretty sure he was staring at her ass, the creepazoid). Besides, it would look a little more than odd, now that she'd tugged on the zipper of his jacket and (accidentally, albeit) pressed herself against him. Maka Albarn wasn't the picture of stereotypical beauty, she was no sex icon, but she still had boobs (sort of) and they had definitely accidentally been smashed up against his (much more interesting and intriguing, actually) chest.

He had made no effort to grab her by her hips and hold her against him. In fact, he rather looked like he wanted his space back, wanted to wash that particular memory away because it was inappropriate.

What was he doing at a sleazy gig? She knew she was there because Liz enjoyed the night life and someone had to be around to hold her hair, but him? Sure, maybe he was in a band, maybe he needed to be there to help accompany his blue haired friend's hollering and the skunk haired guy's meticulous bass playing, but those eyes were sad and lost, almost like kicked puppy dogs and kids whose candy had been ripped from their grimy little hands. He didn't belong, didn't look comfortable, didn't want to be there. And she agreed, but she still had to find Liz somewhere in the crowd, hope she didn't get groped, and shake Kim's smug smile off.

_"What are you doing here? Aw, are you alone?"_

"Just… sit still?"

_Play it cool, Maka._ She could not afford to freak him out and scare his brooding ass off. Despite his odd disposition and the clipped half of the conversation that he'd offered her, he was the most sober guy in the vicinity and the only one who hadn't given her an infuriating once-over when she trotted past, holding Liz's purse in one hand and an empty beer bottle in the other. He was the only one who could be trusted with her odd request, really, and if he was male at all, he wouldn't shove off her advances.

She should know. Her Papa was a guy. The skeeviest, most disgusting kind of man, but he was a man.

"Dude," his friend jeered. "_Dude_. Do it."

"Shut up, Black Star. Listen, lady—" he started, but was soon clipped off by a tug of his jacket and his jaw set.

"Please?" she pleaded quietly. They shared a look — his incredulous, hers begging — and his teeth came down on his lower hip in quiet defeat. "I just… I need you to kiss me. Five minutes, and then you'll never see me again. I swear."

"… Usually girls wait until after they kiss me to tell me I'm not their type," he quipped dryly.

She cracked a smile. His eyes warmed.

His mouth was warmer, he tasted nothing like alcohol and more like the fries he'd been nabbing from his drummer friend, and his lips were soft. Her hand slid up the length of his leather-covered arm and _upupup_ until her fingers were in the hair at the base of his neck and she was slanting her mouth against his; she swore to herself it was because the kiss needed to look believable and not at all because she wanted to kiss him, wanted to feel the way his heat burned through her throat and to her core, where there was a pleasant wildfire smoldering.

He was more reserved, more gentlemanly? with his reactions; only after she'd tugged his mouth against hers did he settle his hands on her slim hips, fingers digging into her and holding her there securely. He did not kiss her with quite as much vigor at first, but he warmed up to the idea and to her. She had to wonder if he felt the same fire, if he felt the same consuming heat, delirious and senseless, because they were perfect strangers. Perfect strangers that were sharing a damn good desperate kiss to get Liz's (not Maka's!) friend off of her ass and his tongue was versatile and dexterous. It was clear that he had more experience kissing than she did — her, a pathetic near-lip virgin! — but he played his part without complaint, still quietly minding his boundaries and keeping his hands high enough on her waist to be far away from her ass.

Her teeth were on his lip and his eyes were half-lidded red infernos when she heard the shrill gasp, and then "Soul! Maka!"

If they hadn't been so entangled with one another, their mutual freeze and horror might've been humorous. Fire squelched for the time being, she moved her hands down to his shoulders and bit her own lip instead, and his eyes grudgingly drifted from her mouth to their interruption. She knew who it was without glancing.

She'd been hoping that there wouldn't be a confrontation, but she recognized Kim's impossibly pink hair anywhere.

Mystery man's shoulders were tight and tense, and a light bulb went off in Maka's head. Soul. Soul. He was Kim's Soul, Kim's ex — the one Kim had cheated on, dumped, and was still receiving sad little breakup mix tapes, of all things, from. And Maka, in her haste to get Kim off her tail and stomp the simpering stares and laughs of pity (or mockery, probably the latter), had grabbed him and kissed him.

It was a nice kiss. A really nice kiss. The nicest kiss Maka had ever had, but maybe that wasn't saying much, since her round total of kisses had now been elevated to three. It was going to be the last kiss she shared with this boy, she knew at once, because once Kim Diehl marked her territory, Maka knew there was no use. There was a predatory gleam in her look, one that she'd been hoping to never be on the other end of. Maka wasn't afraid of her (shallow and money hungry was not something she feared, not a chance) but more so uncomfortable with the idea of being on the receiving end of her smite.

The man looming behind her — a fellow with odd glasses and spiked hair behind his ears — slid a hand onto Kim's shoulder. She seemed to brush him off, turqoise eyes wide and not at all as innocent and maiden-like as Maka knew she'd like to come off. Those eyes were much too calculating, much too wise and genre savvy. She set her gaze on her and Maka stood tall, shoulder suddenly even and back; Soul seemed to shrink back beneath Kim's stare, but Maka wasn't about to let her walk all over either of them.

Kim had done enough damage. Maka wasn't going to let her walk over anybody — not her, not Soul-of-the-nice-lips-and-interesting-tongue, and not even the college-aged boy she had hanging off her.

"How long have you two known each other?" she giggled, but the sound was warped and not at all amiable. "I had no idea that you two were together! I'm glad you found someone new, Soul. But I never would've guessed that you'd go after a girl like Maka."

She chanced a glance at him. He was rapidly becoming guarded, eyes clouding over with an emotional dissonance; there were shades of rawness in his red, shades that were becoming closed in around the walls he was building. His jaw set again and his lips pulled tight.

He was still hurt. He was still very, very hurt, and Kim being so close to him was causing massive ache. She could feel his heartbeat fluttering in his pulse, beneath her fingers and throbbing from the flesh of his neck. Her eyes narrowed.

Kim wasn't all bad, she supposed; she must've had some redeeming qualities if she was friends with Liz, and Jacqueline (another mutual friend), but she was awful with relationships. She went through men like seasons, and she hadn't even had the decency to end things with Soul before she was messing around with her newest conquest (the man standing behind her, or had she already blown through him, too?) and the guy didn't even know. Her blood boiled.

"… We go to the same dentist," Maka lied. "Dr… Stein."

"Dentist," Kim repeated.

One glance at Soul's chompers and Maka knew her lie was foiled. His hands had long since left the slight expanse of her waist and buried themselves deep into the pockets of his jacket. His shoulders were hunched in a frustrating and painful way. He seemed much smaller than he had just mere moments ago, when she'd stood on her toes to better latch her mouth against his and run her tongue along all the sharp edges of his teeth. The likes of Kim should not be able to tear him down like that.

Deciding that they needed an escape, Maka stuffed a hand into his pocket, laced her fingers with his (his brows skyrocketed and he snapped a stare her way) and tugged him past Kim and her boy toy. He stumbled behind her, feet scampering and struggling to gain control over his knees again (Kim always had that effect on men) and she squeezed his hand once, a quiet gesture of strength and support.

She wasn't sure why she was so defensive and supportive over this boy, this man who she'd swapped spit with for all of three minutes; maybe she felt bad because she knew something that he didn't about Kim, maybe she felt a magnetic, kinetic draw to him because she knew those sad eyes. She could read stories in those eyes, stories that she didn't know the words to but knew the pain, knew the confusion and indecision. Maka was fluent in being left behind, and if there was anyone else in the universe that understood what it felt like, then she'd offer what she could.

Unfortunately, 'what she could offer' was Liz's drunk ass.

"Sorry," she mumbled quietly to him. He grunted in response.

She wouldn't pester him for more words. There was an unspoken agreement between them, an understanding that what they'd just uncovered and dealt with was deeper than either understood at ground level.

"Liz, come on," Maka mumbled, clapping her hand on the taller blonde's shoulder.

Clouded blue eyes struggled to focus on her. There was a ripple of annoyance in her gut. She'd promised her that she wouldn't ditch her and drink again, she'd promised! If it wasn't for her, Kim might not have approached her and she might not of had to take Soul down with her, guns blazing.

Beside her, he gave a quiet chuff, free hand still buried deep in the cavern of his pocket for safekeeping. His fingers were long and warm against hers, the spaces between hers filled comfortably. "Nice."

"Shut up. She's not always like this."

"I'm sure," he grumbled.

Liz uncoiled herself and grabbed at Maka's shirt. "Makaaaa," she sang. Maka reached and brushed long blonde hair from her face (and away from her mouth, before she could choke and spit). "You found me!"

"Always do," she hummed. "Soul, could you help me get her up?"

If he wanted to say something (and it looked like he did), he kept it to himself and let go of her hand to grab one of Liz's arms. Maka grabbed the other, and together the two of them hoisted her onto her feet. She refused to straighten her knees, and holding her up was rather like trying to get a jelly-legged toddler to stand on her own, only bigger and harder because Liz was taller and heavier than Maka, and Soul slouched.

"Christ," he growled out. "Is she made of lead?"

"She's drunk, give her a break. You can't tell me your guitarist doesn't drink himself stupid sometimes," she snarled.

He shut up at that, mouth settling into a decidedly disgruntled frown.

x

After another encounter with Kim — this time with her begging him to drive her home — and a run in with his band, Maka found herself standing by Soul's motorcycle with her arms crossed over her chest.

His band had been exhausting. Black Star, or so he called himself, was exuberant and loud, and insisted that she follow him _rightthefucknow_ because they had important shit to discuss. And for whatever reason she'd agreed and followed him — maybe because the most laid back of the three, the one with the black hair and the perfectly-pressed jeans, was supporting Liz and her friend seemed content to comb her fingers through his oddly dyed hair and mumble things to him.

That, and Soul had given her a pleading, defeated look. He clearly knew that going along with whatever his moronic friend was her best bet, and he knew the guy better than she did, so she took his nonverbal advice and stomped after the blue haired barbarian and poked her head into the back of their beat up van.

He was flinging a bra at her. She caught it with her face.

"Excuse me?!" she snapped, cheeks warm. The garment was red and lined with a delicate lace. It wasn't like anything she owned (she was a nude and white bra kind of girl, sensible stuff, stuff that would actually look okay under her collared blouses and not bleed in the wash).

"You kissed my bro," he quipped, grinning wide, and Maka was deeply regretting following him into the van. "And you really kissed him. Like tongue and everything, and we all agree that we like you more than Kim, so we're gonna help you seduce our man Soul. And you need tits for that. Soul is a tits kind of guy."

"That's incredibly shallow and I resent that."

"And you're flat as a board. I'm a man, aren't I? I know what we like," he shrugged. "Soul's sensitive and shit. Kind of a pissbaby, but he's my best bro and he hasn't looked at anybody like that since Kim bailed on him. So do us all a favor, switch out that training bra for some padding, and get the mack on, huh? We'll take your drunk pal home."

Was she supposed to be thankful? She felt rather insulted. And demeaned.

Her brows dipped. "I'm not switching bras to make him think I have a bigger chest than I do. One, that's just stupid and a woman is worth more than the size of her boobs, and two, that would be false advertising. And I don't want to advertise at all."

"Christ, you're one of those booky girls, aren't you?" he chortled. Maka pinked further. "Should've been able to tell by the pigtails — you're perfect for him, all smart and prissy. You're right, if any dickhead checks you out just because of your tits, he's a scumbag and you should call me so I can punch him in his junk. But Soul's already interested. You've just gotta really sink the hook in. My man's worth the padding."

He'd managed to convince her, somehow. If Soul had noticed the difference in her shirt, he didn't say anything, and she was thankful for it. The last thing she wanted was to bring attention to her more meager qualities.

But there were bigger problems at hand. Like his lack of safety equipment.

"I'm not getting on that death trap without a helmet. Where is your helmet?" she puffed, eyes narrowed and stern. "Do you even know how many people die yearly in motorcycle-related accidents?"

There was a darkness in his expression that she couldn't read. "Yeah. I do. Shut up and get on. You do want to get home, don't you?"

Infuriating, brutish boy. Her hands curled into fists beside her; she could call a taxi, but no part of her wanted to board it alone. Even if Liz would've been drunk and giggly, she still wouldn't of had to get in alone and risk kidnapping or… worse. Which left her with her only two options — walk home, or swallow her inhibitions and better judgement, and get on the back of his bike and hug his waist.

"… It's not safe," she grumbled.

He cocked his head, bored expression never once budging. "I'm a good driver. Scout's honor."

"You're a boy scout?"

He managed a simpering grin, shark teeth bared. Danger flashed in her stomach, hot and arousing in a primal, irritating way. "Do I look like one to you?"

It didn't need a verbal answer, because he choked out a self-depreciating laugh and revved the engine. He tossed a jerk of his head over his shoulder, nudging her into where he wanted her to be and rolled his neck, grumbling quietly about his asshole friends and pigtails, of all things, and she felt a flash of white-hot embarrassment. But Maka was nothing if not stubborn, and she wasn't about to let this boy get to her, so she marched her way over, kicked a leg over the bike, straddled the seat and sat wide eyed, as if realizing at once that she had no idea where she was supposed to put her hands.

He seemed to read her mind. "Hang on tight. 'S alright."

She scooted her way forward and pressed herself against his back tentatively. He was warm, and his back was broader than she expected. A lot of his height and size was swallowed by his god-awful posture. His shoulders were wide, arms strong, and as her arms linked around his midsection, she was aware of the strength of his abdomen beneath layers of cotton and leather.

Her mother would have a fit. Accepting rides home from boys with strange genes on motorcycles? Not wearing a helmet? Accidentally copping a feel of said strange boy's stomach muscles? Was she turning into her father?

The bike purred and she heard his neck crack.

"Ready?"

"Yes," she answered. "Aren't you disappointed, though?"

He chuffed. "Of?"

Her lips pursed. He managed as much of a glance over his shoulder at her as he could. Under the low light of the night, his expression was nearly unreadable. He was almost ethereal in his looks, handsome in an unlikely and risky way, but eyes still astoundingly somber and narrating stories and tales to her.

"That it's me here and not her. You know. Your ex."

"Kim?" he grunted, expression clouding again. "I don't… how do you know her, anyway? Do you two go to school together?"

"… Yeah, we go to school together," she laughed humorlessly. "She's got a thing against me. I think I might've just shot any chances you had against making things right with her. I mean, not that you'd want to, anyways. She's—… Kim."

He grunted. His head turned a bit back towards the road. "… Yeah, she's Kim."

"… Soul?"

"Huh?"

Her grasp tightened around him. His shoulders went lax. "Can we just drive around for a bit? My head's really full."

He was quiet for a while. Then, she felt him roll his shoulders and groan quietly. He was very tense beneath that guarded jacket, she realized, and even in the black of midnight, she could still make out the darkness under his eyes, illuminated barely by the streetlight they were parked by. "Yeah, uh. Anywhere?"

"Mm," she murmured, forehead pressing against the center of his back. He didn't say anything more, just pressed on the gas, and they pulled out into the street.


End file.
